"The craving Wife, the force of Magick tries, / And Philters for th' unable Husband buys: / The Potion works not on the part design'd, / But turns his Brain, and stupifies his Mind. / The sotted Moon-Calf gapes, and staring on, / Sees his own Business by another done: / A long Oblivion, a benummi...

"But why must those be thought to scape, that feel / Those Rods of Scorpions, and those Whips of Steel / Which Conscience shakes, when she with Rage controuls, / And spreads Amazing Terrors through their Souls?"

"When once the hard-mouth'd Horse has got the Rein, / He's past thy Pow'r to stop; Young Phaeton, / By the Wild Coursers of his Fancy drawn, /
From East to North, irregularly hurl'd, / First set on Fire himself, and then the World."

"Why have I Learn'd, say'st thou, if thus confin'd, / I choak the Noble Vigour of my Mind? / Know, my wild Fig-Tree, which in Rocks is bred, / Will split the Quarry, and shoot out the Head, / Fine Fruits of Learning!"